


Bombshell

by m_class



Series: February F/F Prompts [1]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Dancing, Defusing a bomb with seconds to spare, Engineering, Espionage, F/F, Mentions of violence because Mirror Philippa, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 22:36:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17989790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_class/pseuds/m_class
Summary: Prompt: A press of lips to knuckles, a hand clasped in the other, a courtly gesture of respect and admiration, perhaps segueing into a dance, staring into each others' eyes, drinking in the emotion





	Bombshell

**Author's Note:**

> From a "Fluffy Kisses" prompt meme I reblogged for my Valentine's Day F/F celebration. This ship was sent by tincanspaceship; thanks again! :)
> 
> Trivia: Careless Whisper started playing as I was working on posting this on here, and can I just say, nice

Strains of music from the gala downstairs float upwards, drifting through the arched ceiling of the ballroom and up through the parquet floor into the quiet, echoing dimness of the room with the bomb. Jett lets the music become part of her rhythm as she twists wires and detaches components, using her modified soldering iron to fry connections one by one in the universe’s most careful game of find-the-right-order-of-operations until finally, finally, the red countdown on the detonator flickers and goes out.

She performs a few more checks, then dashes drops of sweat from her forehead and allows herself a brief moment to take a breath before spending a few more minutes disabling the detonator itself, then taking apart the bomb’s explosive components so that, even if the bomb and its detonator are carefully reattached, each will remind inert.

“Are you done yet?” whines a voice a hair’s breath from her right ear.

“I’ll be done when I say I’m done,” Jett says, refusing to so much as flick her gaze in her companion’s direction. Behind her, Philippa gives a theatrical huff, her high-heeled boots clicking their way across the parquet flooring towards the door and back again.

As she finishes her work, Jett sighs, then sets her tweezers on the floor with a click. She is half-expecting Philippa to come up behind her again. But when Jett turns and stands, wincing and rubbing her sore knees as she does so, the other woman is standing in the middle of the floor, arms sulkily folded.

“That took _forever_. _”_

“For me to do your job? Yeah.” Jett shoots her a look. “I didn’t see you helping, Agent 99. Spies really don’t learn how to defuse a bomb with seconds to spare these days, huh?”

Philippa pointedly holsters the phaser in her hand. “I was making sure you didn’t get shot in the head while you worked. You’re _welcome_.”

Jett nods at the door. “Evidently our colleagues rounded up the baddies before they could even make it up here--”

“Except for that one I disarmed and _very ethically did not murder_ while he was was guarding the bomb--"

“--so once he was tied up and I was working, there was no one to protect me from. You,” she finishes, “were slacking, Georgiou.”

“Hmm.” Philippa smiles sweetly. “Don’t accuse me of slacking, gearhead. I could have defused that little device in half the time it took you if you’d let me have a  go at it.”

“Given that the ‘go’ you wanted to have consisted of shooting the detonator and hoping it fried this ‘little device’ before it took out us and all seven hundred people downstairs, I think you could’ve stood to suck it up, be my assistant, and hand me the tweezers.”

“Well, you seem to have done just fine without me as your _assistant_ , Reno.” Philippa pouts for a minute, staring gloomily at the doorway as though hoping an enemy combatant might still run through it. “Now we’re both stuck here, _slacking_ , until we get our beamout.” There are a few seconds of silence, broken only by the faint sounds of the gala below. A slow smile spreads across Philippa’s face. “Unless…”

Stepping forward, she reaches for Jett’s hand, slowly raising it and brushing her lips against Jett’s knuckles, the grace of the gesture contrasting with the hungry gleam in her eyes.

“May I have this dance?” she asks, voice low and husky.

Jett gives her a look, but allows herself to be pulled gently into the waltz position. Philippa’s hand is smoothly calloused where her fingers entwine with Jett’s, and with the hand on Philippa’s back, Jett can feel the warm of Philippa’s torso through her leather jacket, her hand rising and falling with the other woman’s breath. “You weren’t kidding about slacking, were you?”

“This _is_ a ball.” Music is still floating up to them, the notes of a slow waltz, liquid and languid. “Isn’t that what people do at a ball? Dance?”

Jett smiles sardonically as they begin to move across the room together, the soft steps of her Starfleet-issue boots and the hard click of Philippa’s heels echoing against the floor. “Is that what spies do at a ball? I wouldn’t know. I’m just the grease monkey, remember?”

“You make an excellent spy, Reno,” Philippa says. Her voice is low and her breath is soft against Jett’s face, and there is a glimmer deep in her eyes that Jett thinks might be genuine admiration.

“But a better engineer,” says Jett, just as quietly, after a moment.

The half-question in Philippa’s eyes fades, leaving a trace of disappointment before she tilts her head to the side, smiling roguishly.

“Then I suppose,” she says, in a more exaggerated, throatier voice, “I’d better make the most of tonight.” Gently, she tugs Jett more closely towards her, and Jett smiles, allowing herself, just for the night, to be pulled in.


End file.
